


Burning out

by Elesianne



Series: Fëanorian marriages [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Darkening of Valinor, F/M, Flight of the Noldor, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Married Couple, Sucks to be Celebrimbor, also:, then just hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-27
Packaged: 2018-09-07 03:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8781369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: Curufinwë and his wife burn as one flame, but when darkness creeps in nothing is left but embers and then ashes.The story of the disintegration of a marriage among the downfall of the Noldor as a people.Warnings in notes.  Though marked as part of a series, this works as a standalone.





	1. White fire

**Author's Note:**

> Build them up then tear them down, that's the Tolkien way, isn't it? I'm following that proud tradition with this four-part fic about the disintegration of Curufin and Netyarë's marriage, the happy beginnings of which I have written about [before](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8520295/chapters/19530187). This time the story is told from Netyarë's point of view while trying to also portray Curufinwë relatively sympathetically.
> 
> I aimed to be as canon-compliant as possible: relevant to this story is a note about Celebrimbor in HoME XII: '--- though inheriting [Curufin's] skills he was an Elf of wholly different temper (his mother had refused to take part in the rebellion of Fëanor and remained in Aman with the people of Finarphin)'.
> 
>  
> 
> _**Warnings (for the whole story):** Some sexual content, references to violence, emotional distress and cruelty, canonical major character death(s). Also: so much angst in later chapters, excessive metaphors about fire and light._

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Great disasters begin from small cracks in beautiful things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use Quenya names because this story takes place in Aman. See [here](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/153874978666/tolkien-meta-rambling-the-quenya-names-of-the) for reminders of those names and an explanation why I spell everything with a _c_ rather than _k_.

Happiness, Netyarë comes to realise when it is already slipping through her fingers, is something one should never take for granted. When she married Curufinwë, and when Tyelperinquar was born, she was happier than she could ever have imagined possible, and for a little while she remembered to appreciate it for the precious thing it was.

Then happiness became an everyday emotion and she began to think, or rather subconsciously believe, that her life would always be as happy, that she and her husband would always love each other and find great pleasure in acts of love and that they would have more children to treasure, and that is when the happiness starts to crack.

It is just little cracks at first. Curufinwë being more short-tempered with her than usual, being stricter with Tyelpë than the boy deserves, the occasional uncomfortable silences at their shared meals instead of easy conversation, her not wanting to tell him of her day because he looks like he would not be interested in listening, but afterwards finding him displeased that he had not known something. There are fewer of his grins for her to kiss, as she likes to do, and fewer of her smiles are genuine.

Curufinwë and Netyarë have always understood each other very well in spite of their different family backgrounds, his in royalty and hers in trade. They both have passion and ambition for creating beautiful things and gaining renown for it, they both know how to charm and influence people though they do it in different ways, and he can see when there is distress behind her practised smile as easily as she can recognise the heat of anger or passion that he hides in his cool, controlled gaze.

But there are things she does not understand. His arrogant pride in his bloodline, his unwavering conviction that his family deserves unquestioning respect, his loyalty to his father even when he knows Fëanáro is in the wrong. These things are difficult for her to comprehend because she comes from a family that is completely undistinguished in either greatness or wretchedness, and while she loves her parents and her brother she is not as close to any of them as Curufinwë is to his father.

Even when she does recognise why he feels and acts as he does – what aspects of his character, what experiences and opinions his deeds arise from – she finds it difficult to accept that he cannot choose to act otherwise.

On good days these things do not matter, but in darker times they open a wide gulf between them that neither knows how to cross. She does not understand him, and he thinks it must be for want of trying.

*

The bad days between the two of them start with the Silmarils, as so many things do.

Even before Fëanáro shuts himself alone in his forge, Curufinwë has known without being told that his father is planning something greater than anything that has come before, something he is devoting all of his fire to create. Curufinwë has been grieved by the friction that has come between his parents recently when Fëanáro has heeded Nerdanel's advice less and less, and he is further grieved that his father does not share with him this new project of passion.

The day Fëanáro bars Curufinwë from the workshop as he embarks on his new project Curufinwë comes home in the middle of the day and also shuts himself alone in his study, refusing to talk with either his wife or son. But when it is time to go to bed he paces around the bedroom and words pour out of him, almost as if against his will.

'I understand that he would not want the apprentices or my brothers around; they can be nothing but a distraction when there is difficult work to be done. But _I_ have never got in his way or hindered him in any way. I am always willing to work together with him, or if I am not skilled enough, to act as an assistant, or just watch. But now he shuts even me out and will not even hear me, and I don't understand.'

Netyarë is glad that her husband is telling her about the cause of his distress, but she does not know how to help him. She has always been just as happy to work alone as with others, and though she was apprenticed in her youth, she has never had someone even close to what Fëanáro is to Curufinwë. And she feels like she has never come to understand her father-in-law, similar in nature to her husband though he may be. She is very close with Nerdanel, but Fëanáro is still a mystery to her, one she thinks is too great for her to ever solve. Not that she is certain she would like to; he scares her just a little bit, though she wouldn't admit it.

(Curufinwë is his father's son, much of the same furious white fire burning inside him, but it has never hurt Netyarë because when she is with him she finds flames inside herself too that she never really knew were there.)

She tries to find the positive in this new development and to use it to comfort her husband, so she tells Curufinwë that perhaps he should see Fëanáro's isolation as an opportunity to pursue some projects of his own that he has been thinking about but pushed aside to concentrate on work his father wants to do. This turns out to be entirely the wrong thing to say.

Eyes flaming, Curufinwë begins to speak. 'You –' He swallows, clenches his fists and looks at her for a moment, his eyes unreadable though she can feel his fury in her own spirit. He storms out and does not return until the next evening.

He apologises to her without either of them knowing exactly what it is that he is apologising for, and she forgives him, though she thinks she will be cautious for a while. A little crack has appeared in her trust that she  is capable of understanding him, and in her trust in the strength of their relationship.

They discover passion in the void left by the passing of anger, as they often do. After, when she lies with her head on his chest and strokes his hair that is tangled with her own, black amidst brown, she thinks of how fiercely sweet it is to come together after being sundered by disagreement. She wonders if those couples who never fight ever have anything like this, a passion that burns so hot she marvels at not finding her skin singed.

The next morning when they rise at the same time she finds bruises on her arms and hips and sees deep scratch marks on his back, and she wonders if after all it would be better, safer, if they did not burn quite so hot together.

But Curufinwë seems a little calmer now, and no longer speaks of sorrows. He dedicates himself to teaching Tyelperinquar while Fëanáro works alone on his secret endeavour. To Netyarë it seems like her husband is suddenly determined to make sure that Tyelpë misses nothing that he could teach, to prove that he is willing to share all he knows and to involve his son in all his projects even if his own father does not do the same with him.

Netyarë is glad that Curufinwë found something meaningful to pursue while he does not work with his father, and that he is taking such pains to teach their son. But after a while Tyelpë begins to look pale and tired when he comes home from the workshop with his father at night, and a few times he almost falls asleep into his food at dinner.

She tells Curufinwë that he is driving their son too hard, setting too quick a pace for his learning. 'He is still just a child, Curvo, however talented or smart he may be.'

'He has not complained.'

'You know that would not be like him. He is proud that you are teaching him, and eager to do his best, but it does not mean that you aren't putting too much pressure on him.'

It is one of their after-dinner moments when they each work on their own projects, usually engaged in planning for the future or making notes on the past day's work. Tyelperinquar often joins them to study for a while, but on this night as on many nights recently Netyarë has sent him straight to bed after dinner because he seemed so exhausted.

Curufinwë never takes well to being told he is doing something wrong. 'I think I know how to raise my son, Netyarë.'

'He is our son, not yours. Just because Tyelpë is a boy, and takes more after you in his skills and interests, does not mean that I have any less claim on him or any less say in how he is raised.' She has never had to say these things before. 'I thought you agreed with me on this.'

'I do.' He drops his head to his arms, suddenly looking as exhausted as Tyelperinquar had. 'I am sorry, beloved. I will try to be more patient.'

He does try, and Tyelpë does look less overworked after their conversation, and Netyarë tries to remember this when later things turn worse again.

*

Fëanáro's secret work takes a long time, but when he finally shows it – first to his family, as is his habit with all his creations – it is greater than anyone could have imagined. In their brilliance the Silmarils far surpass all of Fëanáro's earlier works, indeed all the works of the Noldor.

'I could not have done this', Curufinwë says to Netyarë when they have a moment of looking at the jewels alone. His voice is equal parts awe and desperation. And Netyarë hears what he does not say: _But I could still have been there. I would still have helped, in whatever small way. He did not need to shut me out._

Netyarë is too awestruck to have any wise reply. 'They are all the colours at once, and yet there is no colour like theirs in the whole world.'

'No', Curufinwë agrees. 'I can fashion gems of any shade, but the light in these… it is truly the light of the Trees, and the light of the greatest spirit of our people.'

Curufinwë rarely likes his wife, or anyone else, to be aware of his moments of weakness, but Netyarë can tell that this moment is very difficult for him. He feels lost as more than ever he realises of how much less remarkable his talents are than his father's, and the feeling of loss is mingled with a resentment. _He has put as much of himself in these jewels as in any of us,_ Curufinwë is telling her without wanting to. _In me or any of my brothers_.

Netyarë does not know how to console him, and in spite of the greatness of the Silmarils and the way they make her heart sing as they do to everyone who sees them, she is selfishly glad that Curufinwë is not capable of binding so much of himself into anything he creates. His creations are more of his hands than of his spirit, and he despairs for it while Netyarë is relieved that she will never lose him to his craft as Nerdanel seems to be losing Fëanáro.

*

Soon after Fëanáro's Silmarils have awed all of the Eldar and the Valar alike and been blessed by Varda, a new cause of contention arises between Curufinwë and Netyarë, its roots in wider disquiet among their people. For seemingly out of nothing, discontent arises among the Noldor. There is talk of the Valar keeping them captive here under their rule while the lands they could have ruled in the east will soon be taken over by a lesser race of second-born whom the Valar have kept secret from the Eldar.

To Netyarë it feels like the whole world has changed. All her life, all the concerns in the life of their people have been about forging one's path and finding one's own place in the world they live in, in Eldamar under the rule of the Valar; now some are questioning the rightness of the whole world order.

And chief among those who challenge the belief that all is as well as can be is Fëanáro. It comes as no surprise to Netyarë that he soon becomes the loudest voice of dissent: she knows that he is unwilling to take part in anything without being in its lead, and he is by nature disinclined to accept any authority except his own and his father's. For a time Fëanáro only voices his opinions among his family and followers, but in later years private conversations and whispered insinuations will turn into loud words out in the open.

From the first, Netyarë finds it difficult to agree with her father-in-law, and with her husband who inevitably thinks alike with his father. For to her, it seems that they have all they could need here. And she does not feel oppressed by the Valar – she does not even feel particularly ruled by them, for she has always felt the authority of King Finwë more keenly in her everyday life than that of Manwë. That has changed little after she married the king's grandson; but perhaps those who were born among the rulers of the Eldar feel differently about Valar.

Trying to understand, she asks Curufinwë what there is in the lands across the sea that cannot be had here.

'Freedom', he answers, and, 'Wider realms that we could rule on our own.'

'Do we not have freedom here?' she asks. 'And was there not death and darkness in those lands, and for that our people came here? Following your grandfather, no less.'

He looks at her a long time, weighing his words. 'Tirion may be enough for you. For some, the whole breadth of Aman is too narrow a world.'

Fëanáro has indeed travelled the breadth of Aman, explored even the least known, cold and distant corners. In youth he went alone and with Nerdanel, and later with his sons. Netyarë has also been invited on a few journeys but always chooses to stay in Tirion, where her work is. The white city of the Noldor, which she has in a small way made more beautiful with her art, is indeed enough for her.

Netyarë notices that Curufinwë said that Aman is too narrow 'for some' and knows that what he means is 'for my father, and for me'. _You would be a king, my love,_ she thinks, _but I have no desire to be a queen._

Though he studiously avoided mentioning the difference between the classes into which they were born, an unspoken awareness of it is in the air between them now after having lain near-forgotten for years.

Out of loyalty and love and any real passion for opposing opinions, she does not speak against her husband or his father in public and rarely even in private. Yet she does not change her mind, and neither does Curufinwë, and instead of keeping them together as she intends it to, her apparent acquiescence becomes an ever-widening distance between them.

She would have thought that with how even amiable conversations that the two of them have tend to grow heated and be full of sharp-edged words, any truly important difference of opinion between them would manifest itself as loud arguments. Yet it seems that the more serious their discord, the more it shows only as a freezing silence that slowly creeps from their lips into their hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that Netyarë doesn't seem out of character in this story; in _Sparks fly out_ , which ended up being written from Curufin's point of view 95% of the time, she perhaps came off harder than I'd intended. In my head she has always been a lot warmer and kinder as a person than Curufin, though she's also sharp-tongued, and Tyelperinquar/Celebrimbor gets his gentler nature from her.
> 
> Following chapters will be longer, especially the next one that covers the many years of unrest and strife among the Noldor as Melkor spreads his malice.
> 
> Please do let me know what you think by leaving a comment! This is the first slightly darker fic which I've posted and I'm really curious to find out what people make of it. (You can also come say hello on [my Tumblr](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/)!)


	2. Flickering flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As times turn darker it becomes ever more difficult to see the good in one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out very long but then again, this period wasn't just a year or two, it lasted decades.
> 
> Another thing to keep in mind when reading this: while Tolkien kept changing his mind about whether or how the elves had weapons before they came to Valinor, it was clear in all his versions that they led a very peaceful life once they got there, and weapons and fighting (apart from hunting) were not a part of it before Melkor spoke to the Noldor.

Disagreeing with her husband about the Valar is painful for Netyarë, but even harder is what follows those rebellious murmurings because it touches her more closely. The lack of love that Fëanáro has always had for his half-siblings and for Nolofinwë in particular becomes an enmity and a strife within the House of Finwë, the extended family she married into. Suspicions and jealousies are aroused in both Fëanáro and Nolofinwë, and cordial relations between others, too, become frayed.

The friendships between Maitimo and Findecáno, Tyelcormo and Irissë are sorely tried when their fathers become ever more bitter towards each other and all of Tirion is divided into factions. Nerdanel has always got along well with Indis, and Fëanáro has just about tolerated this; now this friendly relationship becomes yet another cause of argument between Fëanáro and Nerdanel, for she refuses to give it up for his sake.

For Netyarë, all interactions with her husband's family, which used to be easy and pleasant, become fraught with danger of missteps and outbursts.

And Curufinwë suffers terribly from the dissension between his parents, since he loves them both and does not want to choose, and now he feels he must. It is his deep love and loyalty for Fëanáro, and Fëanáro's inflexible nature, that makes him feel torn apart. It is difficult for him to be friendly with his mother when he knows that it vexes his father, and whenever Fëanáro forces his sons to take sides with one of their parents, Curufinwë always chooses his father. It surprises no one but pains him nonetheless.

Yet he speaks little of this pain to Netyarë. More and more he keeps his feelings inside, does not speak of them to her and sometimes even attempts to close off his mind. She would comfort him, in the matter of his parents' conflict at least, if he shared his distress with her; many times she has told him that revealing his fears and sorrows to those who love him is not a weakness, and she has heard Tyelcormo say the same, but Curufinwë seems to believe this less and less. Netyarë's own pride often keeps her from reaching out to him when it might be good if she did, because pleading with him to be honest with her when is reluctant to do so does not make her feel good about herself.

Nerdanel can see the cracks in her son's marriage, though they are still very small compared to the estrangement that seems inevitable between her and Fëanáro now that he ignores her opinions and advice, instead following his passions no matter how they hurt his family.

'Curufinwë and you are not Fëanáro and me; do not let our discord become yours', Nerdanel tells Netyarë one day on a visit. 'There is still much love between you two. Try to protect it from the tensions and unrest among our people.'

Netyarë tries. The silences she and her husband fall into to avoid talk of controversial topics she strives to fill by speaking of things which still unite them – art and craft, the few unproblematic family matters, their son. She tries to remember that Curufinwë is not his father, only similar to him; she tries to cherish the love she feels for her husband instead of resenting it for making things complicated.

 _You knew what he was like when you married him. It is hypocritical and stupid of you to fret over his flaws now, for you chose them along with choosing him as your own. You even chose his father's influence, though you did not know how extreme his ideas would become._ This is what she repeats to herself in difficult moments.

Curufinwë tries too, in his own way. He brings her rich gifts even more often than he used to, breathtakingly beautiful things created by his own hand, so valuable and precious that she gasps when he puts them in her hands, and it is difficult to think of many occasions important enough to wear them.

'You do not need to shower me with gifts', she tells him gently one night in bed while he lays on her brown curls a delicate hairnet wrought of gold and silver and decorated with countless tiny, twinkling gemstones of every possible colour. He came home very late because he had wanted to finish it and give it to her on this night.

'What else would I do?' He speaks sharply but strokes the back of her neck as gently as she had spoken. 'How else would I show how much you mean to me?'

They had had ugly words two weeks ago, and many glacial silences since. It is unusual that Curufinwë is the one to first rekindle warmth, and Netyarë appreciates his effort.

'You just need to love me', she says and lays a hand on his.

Curufinwë takes her words very literally. He lifts the glittering hairnet off her head and sets it on the bedside table, and then kisses her with such infinite tenderness that it makes her want to cry. Instead, she answers his kiss with fire. But he does not allow her to escalate the gentle warmth to the raging flame they often become in bed; he lightly holds her arms down while he sweetly touches and kisses every inch of her body as if to show how dear all of her is to him, and for this night the silence between them is driven away by the soft noises she makes.

*

Curufinwë does not tell Netyarë when he begins with his father and brothers to hammer out weapons and shields instead of the beautiful useful and ornamental objects they used to make. Tyelcormo, believing that his younger brother has told his wife, lets it slip one day in a conversation between the three of them, and she is devastated.

That night they shout at each other as loud as they dare, trying not to wake Tyelperinquar but unable to keep their feelings inside. Netyarë, as hurt that he kept this a secret from her as she is horrified that he is creating instruments of killing, demands that he tell her what or who they intend to use these weapons against.

'We make swords so that we can defend ourselves against betrayal', Curufinwë says in a voice of cold steel.

'Betrayal like hiding things from your own wife?' she slashes back. 'That is the only kind of betrayal I see in our land.'

He flinches and says between ground teeth, 'I did not tell you because I knew you would be like this. You don't understand.'

'No, I do not! Make me understand, Curufinwë, if you can.'

He cannot, and this incident makes her no more receptive to the ideas espoused by Fëanáro and Curufinwë. And the knowledge that he lied to her stays with her, haunting her thoughts.

In fact, over time, all the things they thought they had left behind before they even fell in love come back to haunt them: the greatness of his family, the insignificance of hers, and the difference in between. His pride and superiority, her pride and conviction that in many ways that matter, his family is no more valuable than hers. His temper, its flames hidden but ever present; his father, and his unswerving loyalty.

And new causes of disagreement arise as well: her close friendship with his mother, which had before been a source of joy also for Curufinwë but is now a point of contention within the family, and her refusal to stop painting commissions for lords who don't support Fëanáro unquestioningly (there are few of those commissions, anyway, and eventually they stop entirely).

Once again, in order not to widen the gulf between them, they avoid talking about the things that cause them to quarrel: their differing opinions on the Valar, Nolofinwë and his house, the weapons.

Yet it is difficult to get along, and different from before. They are both different. Curufinwë tries to keep his temper in check, to speak coolly and act rationally even though his father's anger rages also in him. Some of the time he succeeds in controlling himself, but not nearly always. To Netyarë it seems that he is steel and quicksilver by turns, and she cannot keep up with him. She begins to grow tired of trying, and resentful with him for forcing her to accommodate his moods while she is unhappy herself.

There is a fire in him, this she has always known. But it has only ever warmed her or burnt her in the most pleasurable of ways before, never leaving marks she did not cherish. Now she grows afraid of being burnt by his cruel words, if not by his touch; being truly afraid is a new sensation, and she discovers that she hates it.

*

Once when the two of them are leaving Finwë's palace and some of Nolofinwë's most fervent supporters corner them and strike up a conversation, she sees Curufinwë dig his fingernails into his palms as he attempts to rein in his temper, to speak in measured words rather than let out the furious shout that is already on the tip of his tongue. He presses his nails in so hard that after a few moments, she sees drops of blood swell up.

She makes up an excuse, something to do with herself, so that they can quickly leave the tense conversation. As they walk away both of them hold themselves straight and proud, her hand on his arm in a show of support, he fitting his longer strides to her shorter ones. This is all easy and instinctive, their public facade that became routine years ago.

Words are harder. Curufinwë says nothing, just stares ahead with his jaw drawn tight. Pity and irritation vie for control of Netyarë's tongue; pity wins out when she sees another crimson drop fall from his still-bleeding hand on to the skirts of her dress that thankfully is a dark pink shade, garnet-like, and does not show the blood very clearly.

'You can tell me', she says quietly. 'Whatever it is you wanted to say to them, you can tell me now. I will listen, and it might make you feel better.'

'It isn't anything that you want to hear.'

'I would still hear it if you would tell me.'

He does not. He says nothing and he conceals his feelings from her, and they walk home in fraught silence. Thankfully the bleeding stops before they get there.

Netyarë is sorry that once again he chose not to share a burden with her. She understands that he needs to hone his control over himself to keep his temper in check when tensions rise, but must he also keep her at arm's length? It happens more and more, him not accepting her offers of help, and it makes things harder for her, too.

That night in bed, when he finally turns to her in search of the comfort to be found in her arms, she tells him, 'You are too cold and too hot to me in turns.'

'But I love you.' He seems genuinely confused and upset, and a little desperate.

 _Is love enough after all?_ Afraid of the answer, she does not ask out loud.

*

Though they try to avoid speaking of their disagreements, the issues that cause strife between them and in their whole society inevitably keep coming up and as they grow ever more frustrated with each other, Curufinwë's arguments in particular become more personal and his words more direct and vicious.

'It is a grave betrayal indeed if the Valar truly brought us here so that we live in thraldom while they give the rest of the world to the second-comers', Netyarë concedes to him one day. 'But what proof do we have of them doing that?'

Instead of answering her question, he tells her harshly that she does not understand that she is a thrall of the Valar, and he does, for one simple reason: 'You are from the lower classes, and thus you are used to being ruled and have never imagined ruling a land of your own; you cannot imagine it. My family can.'

In their decades of marriage Curufinwë has never reminded her of her humbler background in a cruel way; in spite of his arrogance and pride, he has always treated her as his equal. If he had not, she thinks she would not have married him or indeed have been capable of loving him.

Now she sees that he regrets his words as soon as he says them, but he cannot take them back: they are between them now, another wall pushing them apart. She knows that he meant what he said, even if he wishes he had not said it out loud. And perhaps he is even right; she doesn't know if he is. But reminding her of her lower birth in that manner felt like cruelty, and it felt like the man she loves telling her that she is of less worth than he is. This she finds difficult to forgive even when he eventually apologises.

It becomes harder and harder for Netyarë to not act cold towards him at home, and to not let resentment usurp love's place in her heart. Supporting him in public is hard, too: standing silently by her man is against her nature, especially when what he says goes against what she believes. Yet she does it for a while, just stands there looking aloof or smiling, whichever is appropriate, thankful that she is better at pretending than many.

Then she begins to avoid all easily avoidable social events, and then the ones that are harder to skip, too, to avoid the pretence that is starting to make her feel sick to her stomach.

She throws herself into her work and into caring for Tyelperinquar; his father still spends a lot of time teaching him but Netyarë believes that far from giving their son all that he needs, Curufinwë's attention may well leave Tyelpë needing more of the gentler care that she can provide. Tyelpë may have already grown to be taller than his mother, but Netyarë thinks he still needs kind words and encouragement, not just Curufinwë and Fëanáro's strict tuition and high expectations. He may look eerily similar to them, but he is unlike his father and grandfather in temper.

*

Netyarë and Curufinwë have one of the worst fights so far, or at least the one that most greatly widens the rift between them though it is not as loud as some of the others, on a day he comes home with Tyelperinquar unexpectedly early. Their timing is not the only unexpected thing: to her horror, when she comes to greet them Netyarë sees that her son is swaying on his feet and being supported by Curufinwë, and Tyelpë's right arm is in a sling and his face covered in bruises, a particularly vivid one forming around one of his eyes.

'What happened?' she breathes in horror to Curufinwë as she hurries to help Tyelpë sit down in a comfortable chair.

Curufinwë looks like he is searching for words; her eyes narrow at him even as Tyelperinquar hastens to reassure his mother. 'Don't worry, mother, it was just –' He winces and touches his bruised jaw. 'It was just an accident. I will be fine.'

'He will be fine, really, Netyarë', adds his father. 'We already saw a healer, and it is only a broken elbow, the rest is just bruises –'

'What kind of an accident was this?' Her voice is low as she speaks to Curufinwë; it would be furious if she did not want to avoid upsetting Tyelpë. 'I though you two were going to work at the forge today. How did he come to be bruised, bones broken? It seems more like a hunting accident, yet he has never before come home from a hunting trip looking like this.' She gestures at their son's wretched state.

'We changed our plans.' Curufinwë moves his hands behind his back as if he has something to hide, but she has had enough time to see that his knuckles are bloody, too.

 _Tyelpë has been coming home with battered knuckles on many nights recently_ , Netyarë thinks, _and moving stiffly as if after great exertion. And acting a little strangely with me._

'Are you training him to fight?' she asks her husband with deathly calm. 'Have you been hiding that you are teaching him to kill as you hid from me that you were forging weapons to kill with?'

'Mother, please –' says Tyelperinquar in a pained voice. He has always hated to see his parents quarrel, and this seems more serious and dangerous than most of their disagreements.

Netyarë tears her gaze off her husband's chilly and angry eyes, but she still feels his shame and anger in the connection between them as she turns to Tyelperinquar and speaks softly to him. 'Did the healer already give you something for the pain?'

'Yes, that's why I am a little dazed.' Tyelpë shakes his head as if to clear it.

She tells Curufinwë to help their son to his bed and herself goes to gather a few things to make him comfortable. When she comes to Tyelpë's room she tells her husband to leave and thankfully he departs without a word of protest, only telling Tyelpë that he will feel better soon.

'I am sure I will, father', Tyelpë says dreamily, already half-way to Lórien.

Netyarë stays until he falls asleep, and for a long time after. She can hear her blood pounding in her ears as she watches her sleeping son, dearer to her than anything else in the world. She had thought that Curufinwë felt the same way about Tyelpë, whatever his other faults. So how could he allow him to be hurt, even by accident?

Eventually she rises and goes to find her husband. To his credit, he has not run away to his own father but stayed at home. She finds him in his study pretending to work but really just staring at the ledger in front of him.

She sits in the chair in front of his desk, opposite him, on opposite sides of the table and the argument that they both know will begin as soon as she opens her mouth.

'Will you tell me about the fighting training you have been doing with him.' It is a command, not a question.

As tonelessly as if he were talking about something completely insignificant, Curufinwë recounts how he with his father and brothers had first began to practise martial skills amongst themselves and then, later, taught others, loyal followers of Fëanáro.

'And our son, whom you have made into a loyal follower of your father.' Netyarë is controlled in her anger as usual, but this time it is for her child being hurt, and her fury and grief infuse every seemingly calm word with power. The incandescence of it feels almost too much to bear.

'It is the custom for sons to be loyal to their fathers, as he is to me and I am to my father.'

She cannot believe that he is seeking defence in platitudes. 'As it is for husbands to be honest with their wives! Still, I should probably have grown accustomed to you lying to me by now. But this time you made him lie to me, too, and that I cannot forgive.'

'We have not lied to you about this, we have merely not spoken –'

'That is lying by omission and you know it very well, and so should Tyelpë! But then this has been a good opportunity for you to teach him deception and dissembling along with fighting, has it not? Since you have always thought him too forthright and open.'

'He _is_ too open with his feelings and thoughts, Netyarë, and it is dangerous.' Curufinwë, too, seems desperate as well as angry.

'More dangerous than what made him come home today battered, barely on his feet? How did he come to be hurt so, if you were only training?'

'One cannot practise these things without risk. Tyelcormo misjudged his strength, and Tyelpë misjudged the distance –' Curufinwë stops speaking when he sees Netyarë biting her fist to keep calm, tears gathering in her eyes. 'I am so sorry that he got hurt, my love. I did not wish it.' Oddly, he never lays aside endearments even during their fights. Perhaps he considers them another weapon in his arsenal.

'Are you laying the blame on your brother?' She wipes away tears, unhappy that her anger is turning into sorrow so fast. She cannot afford to be soft, because her husband will never truly be.

'No, he was only sparring with Tyelpë because I asked him to. Because he is the best of us in this, and I want Tyelpë to learn from the best.' Curufinwë swallows. 'I misjudged too. I asked more of Tyelpë than he was ready for.'

'You keep doing that', she tells him, exhausted with this old argument. 'Why, Curvo? Why do you keep rushing his learning in the forge, and now in fighting?'

'Because he needs to learn these things.'

'But surely there is no such hurry, no need to risk hurting him or to drive him to exhaustion. There is time.'

Curufinwë looks like he wants to argue this point, and Netyarë wonders, _Is there not? Why do you think so? What do you keep expecting to happen?_

'Do not treat me like a child or a servant, Curufinwë', she warns him. 'I am your wife, and I have the right to know if you are planning something.'

 _Do you?_ he asks her, if only in his mind, and Netyarë knows that they are now searching for the limits of the roles of a man and a woman, of a wife and husband's relative rights. Their marriage has been more equal than many others, until now at least.

'Things may not always be as they are now. Times change', is all he says in the end.

'I know that.' To her pain, she does know it. She pauses, controls her temper to be able to drive her point across. 'But I still don't understand what it is that you need Tyelpë to learn to protect himself against.'

Once again, instead of an answer and understanding there is only silence.

*

'I am very sorry for lying to you', Tyelperinquar tells her the next day as they sit eating lunch together. Since his better hand is out of use, she cuts his food for him as she has not done for many decades.

'I know your father told you to do it or you would not have lied.' Tyelpë's freely given admission that he had indeed lied makes it even easier for her to forgive him. 'I understand your loyalty, but I also wish you know that you can tell me anything.'

'I know.' Tyelpë stabs at his food with his fork. 'Did father apologise too?'

She knows this is his way of asking if his parents have reconciled. 'In his own way, he did.'

Curufinwë had acted more decently than she had expected by saying that he was sorry that Tyelperinquar had been hurt and by admitting that he had made a mistake, and even though he had not actually apologised for lying, her treacherous heart has half-forgiven him. But she doubts she can ever wholly forgive putting Tyelpë in danger, and she certainly will not forget it.

'There will be no shouting between your father and me tonight', she assures her son. One night's peace is a pitiful promise, but she dares not promise more since she does not want to end up a liar too.

'I will keep training to fight better, once my arm heals', Tyelperinquar says after a while. 'I am sorry if it causes you grief, mother, but it is what men of our family do now. And I am almost grown up.'

'I know, my darling.' How could she not, when it feels like every day she has to look farther up to meet his gaze? She wishes he were still the bright-eyed little boy who found safety enough in her arms, but time marches on inexorably and he must find his own place in the world. It seems to be by his father's side, as little as she likes it.

'Your father is demanding with you, but he is proud of you, and he does love you too.' She hates herself for making apologies for Curufinwë, but even more she wants Tyelperinquar to be happy, and he needs to know that he is loved by the father he follows in all things.

'It's all right, mother. I know that he loves me.' Her son's grey eyes, the shape and colour of them exactly like hers, are filling again with light and warmth.

'I am glad to hear that.' She manages to give him a weak smile that seems to reassure him that she is all right – he is not as good at seeing though pretences as either of his parents, and sometimes even Netyarë worries about it. But he is otherwise smart and strong, and he has a generosity of heart that she cherishes even if Curufinwë thinks it a vulnerability, a weakness.

As they finish their meal in silence, an easy and comfortable one, Netyarë looks at Tyelperinquar with tenderness and thinks, _Somehow you do always know that your father loves you, my dear boy. You remember it, but I think it has been a long time since he last told you so._

She is so proud of her bright, brave son, and as long as she has him she could never regret marrying Curufinwë.

*

Then one day, after countless days of growing tensions, Fëanáro strides into the King's council hall armoured and armed and threatens Nolofinwë with his sword. Curufinwë and his other sons go with him to the Ring of Doom when he is summoned to answer to the Valar for this deed, and for his words of rebellion.

Netyarë does not go. She had been at home with Tyelperinquar when her father-in-law committed his rash folly, and she has nothing to testify. The days she waits for news from Taniquetil are tense and filled with shadows that whisper questions at her.

The shadows ask her how she will bear it if the man who returns to her is even harder to love than he was before. What if, in this matter and during all years to come, he keeps siding with his father and disregarding her views and her happiness? How much longer can she tolerate being placed second in the affections of the one to whom she bound herself by supposedly eternal ties of love?

What will she do if things do not get better, only worse? The question echoes in the empty rooms of their big house. Could she ever yield, abase herself and accept whatever scraps of affection Curufinwë condescends to spare her, remaining loyal and loving in return for very little? Or will she be like Nerdanel, living in the same house with her husband but leading completely separate lives, their former devotion and intimacy only a painful memory? Perhaps she will try to drive him away from the house they lovingly made their shared home years ago, because at some point she can no longer stand the sight of him…

She does not know how to find a path back to happiness, but the thought of losing him tears at her heart _. We have not had seven children and brought them to adulthood together, we have not had centuries of loving each other; I am not ready to give up on you yet._

_When we chose each other you promised me a forever. It is turning out to be a very short time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to show in this long chapter that the disintegration of this marriage is not a straight descent from happiness to estrangement but a gradual process with better moments scattered amid the increasing alienation. Fëanor is now well on his way to becoming 'terrible dad Fëanor' and Curufin's not doing too hot either, thus the 'Sucks to be Celebrimbor' tag. Netyarë's not perfect either, of course, but this is written from her POV so we perhaps see her flaws less clearly.


	3. Cooling embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the in-between existence of exile, the cold proves too much to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter of this miseryfest! This chapter covers the time in Formenos and its sudden end. I'm going with the HoME version that Fëanor's sons were the ones who found Finwë dead (not a pleasant sight) and then went to Taniquetil to tell everyone there. As usual I'm being as canon-compliant as possible, trying to show the human interactions between the lines of an epic.

 When Curufinwë returns from his father's judgement there is a storm in him. He announces that they are going to Formenos in a manner that brooks no argument; he expects none from Tyelperinquar, but judging by the look he gives Netyarë he is not entirely certain about her. Neither is Tyelpë, and he is the one to ask her.

'Mother, you – are you coming?' He sounds nervous and looks like a little boy instead of the tall youth at the threshold of adulthood that he is.

'I am coming', Netyarë reassures him. She would go for his sake alone; she is so sorry that the tensions of the past decades have made him lose trust in his parents' always being there for him.

They all begin packing, each starting with what is most important to them. Netyarë goes to the room where she keeps her painting supplies and tries to sort them into piles of things to be left and things to be taken along, but she finds herself at a loss. Twelve years in the cold north – how can she know what to take? She has little knowledge of Formenos, has no idea how easy it will be to obtain more supplies there. And what will she even paint there?

Hours later Curufinwë finds her sitting on the floor in the middle of the room with pigment jars, paintbrushes and old sketches strewn around her, almost but not quite crying. He sits down next to her and though he says nothing, after a moment she moves closer and leans into him, and he puts his arms around her.

He will not apologise, she knows, for her having to leave her home because of his father, because he never admits that Fëanáro does anything wrong. Not since the Silmarils. But the strong, slightly desperate embrace, the way he buries his face in her hair and the feelings of confusion and grief that she can just about make out from among his anger and resentment for the Valar and Nolofinwë are just enough that she thinks, _I would still follow you to the other side of the world, because in spite of everything I am not ready to give you up._

She is not certain if he can feel her thoughts, but in any case, after a while he stands up and takes her by the hand and they go together, and that night he is what keeps her warm when she is afraid of the cold unknown.

*

It does prove to be cold in Formenos, and to Netyarë it feels like it gets colder every year. Their new place of dwelling, the new home of this close-knit royal family that often feels suffocating to Netyarë and at other times like a source of strength, is barely kept warm by the ever-blazing fires in the great fireplaces and the thick furs on the beds.

But the treelight is not only cooler here, it is also dimmer, and it feels like there is little light in Fëanáro's fortress in the hills. The Silmarils and their radiance he locks in a chamber of iron and never takes out, at least not in the sight of others. He and his sons dedicate themselves to the creation of glittering gems and terrible weapons alike, but there is no joy in the work of their hands as there used to be.

Nerdanel did not come. After years of virtual estrangement from her husband, her decision to not follow him wasn't a surprise to anyone, but her choice to go dwell with Indis was, and it added to Fëanáro's embitterment. Netyarë misses her as much as she misses her own mother.

Tinweriel and Tuilindien, the wives of Macalaurë and Carnistir, did come to Formenos, and it is with them that Netyarë spends her days. Tyelperinquar, now considered a man even if he is a few years short of his majority, spends with his mother as much time as he can, but it is not much. Curufinwë expects him to work as hard as the rest of the men of their house and as always he does as his father bids, out of both love and duty.

Their life in Formenos is strange. Fëanáro pushes to create more and more riches and weapons, then hoards them behind iron doors. It is clear he is preparing for something, but there is never talk of what. It is an in-between existence they have there in their temporary exile; no one knows what their life will be like when it ends. Returning to life as it was before seems impossible, as if Fëanáro's sword at his brother's throat had severed all ties to what came before.

Netyarë does her usual work at first, painting frescoes on the walls of the halls and chambers of the stronghold. Yet it is not such a pleasure here as in Tirion, for this is not a real home, not a place anyone cherishes or wants to stay at. After a while she puts away her buckets of limestone and her plastering tools, and spends her time drawing sketches and doing oil paintings. She captures Tuilindien engrossed in her books, paler and quieter now but somehow still gentle and affectionate with Carnistir, and Tinweriel with her flute that she still plays though she no longer sings merry songs with Macalaurë.

Most of all Netyarë draws and paints Tyelperinquar. Usually from memory, since he has little time to pose for her, but this is no problem for her. The features of her only child are drawn indelibly in her heart and she can retrieve them from there and capture him in ink or paint whenever she wishes. She records him hard at work at the forge, his lanky form growing stronger every day, and with his eyes shining with joy when he shows her something particularly fine he has made, or when he gives her one of his creations as a gift.

One evening Finwë, Fëanáro, Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar are gathered close together inspecting a piece of work Tyelpë has finished that day, and the sight of their four dark heads together brings Tyelcormo and the Ambarussar almost to laughter, so similar do they look. They have the same sleek dark hair, the same long nose and high cheekbones, and they differ very little in height or build. Yet the way they each hold themselves sets them apart, and that contrast is no doubt part of the reason for Tyelco and the twins' merriment.

Even in self-imposed exile, Finwë exudes calm authority; next to him, Fëanáro appears restless, a prowling beast even when he stands still. Curufinwë, on the other hand, seems to be cold and still all the time now, his watchful gaze always on his father first and others second. Tyelperinquar, like Finwë, is what he always has been: eager to learn and listen, as quick to a smile as to a frown but far more steady than his uncle Tyelcormo who is similarly capable of both.

Netyarë is so struck by the sight of the four of them that she has to paint it even though the similarity between her son and his father's line is also a source of pain and worry for her these days. (Tyelpë inherited from her nothing in looks but his eyes, a pure grey in colour rather than blue or silver-blue, and far more likely than the others' to be full of warmth – not a dangerous fire that burns too hot but a warmth of affection or joy.)

Curufinwë used to be one of her favourite subjects, but in Formenos she never paints him except as one figure in that one big portrait of the four men. He had been affectionate and attentive with her when they came to Formenos and remained so for a time, as if to make up for her having to leave her family, friends and work in Tirion, but eventually he began spending far more time with his father and brothers than her. The silence and distance are opening up between them again, and she does not know how to stop it, and she is no longer entirely sure she wants to.

She doesn't paint her husband anymore because to paint him as he had been, full of love and light and warmth for her, would be too painful, and to depict him as he is now, growing cooler and more distant and yet like a furious bonfire that scorches those who come too close, would be worse.

Some of the fault may be hers, for she finds it impossible now to be friendly towards Curufinwë's father. She could never not respect Fëanáro's unparalleled skills and his fierce intelligence, but she no longer admires them. However brilliant he is, he has brought more sorrow and strife to his people and to his own family than he has wrought things good and beautiful, and she believes it would be better if he were less of a genius.

As Curufinwë grows ever colder Netyarë becomes more impatient and quicker to anger. She had been tired of tolerating his changing moods, and now she is tired of trying to coax any warmth out of him. There seems to be very little that he is willing to give her freely these days, of his time or attention, and he seems to have no kind words left for anyone at all.

 _It should not only be me being generous,_ she rages in her mind. _It is not right that I should be the only one to give anything of myself._

Just as much as she seethes she wonders, _How did we come to this? I thought we used to burn so bright together. Was it just a trick of the light?_

What they share becomes less every year. While he still seems to be making any kind of an effort with her she is willing to give him, and herself, the comfort of their lovemaking; she is still faintly hopeful of rediscovering what they used to have.

But as time passes he becomes ever more reserved and haughty and comes closer and closer to cruelty in his interactions with her, and she shifts farther and farther away from him, no longer allowing him into her mind or her heart or, in the end, her bed. Passion is the last thing they share but after affection is gone, it burns itself out soon, too.

He starts spending some nights in the small cot in the room that acts as his study. She does not comment on this and is too proud to ask him not to, and eventually he moves all of his things out their shared bedroom and has a proper bed made for the study.

She is relieved more than anything else, she finds. The bed feels too big for her alone, but it is easier to find sleep when she is not laying with her back turned to his, wondering if they will ever turn to each other again.

*

When they have been in Formenos for a few years, not long after Fëanáro drove Melkor from his door and a new fear settled into the hearts of everyone in Valinor, Tyelperinquar comes of age.

His celebration is not what it should have been. The coming of age of the eldest grandchild of the king of the Noldor would have been, if things were different, a joy-filled occasion marked by great festivities that had the whole city of Tirion abuzz with excitement. And all of Tyelperinquar's family and friends, not just his father's closest kin, should have been there.

Curufinwë doesn't like it when Netyarë leaves Formenos and goes to visit her family and her mother-in-law in Tirion, but she no longer cares about his opinions and goes every now and then. On one visit, shortly before Tyelperinquar's begetting day, she asks Nerdanel to come to Formenos for the party. Nerdanel is quiet for a long time and then says that she believes it will be a happier event if she does not come.

Fëanáro has not forgiven his wife for what he deems unjust desertion, and Netyarë knows this, so she says that she understands.

'I can see that you do, better than I hoped you would', Nerdanel says quietly, and Netyarë can see a world of sorrows behind her eyes, and she knows that there are more in her own, too, than there were when they last saw each other. It is not uncommon for husband and wife to become estranged, but it is usually a slow and peaceful process – a growing apart – that bears little resemblance to the way both Nerdanel and Netyarë have become lost to their husbands.

When Netyarë returns to Formenos she brings with her a statue Nerdanel has sculpted as a gift for her grandson. It is one of Nerdanel's abstract works, a graceful shape that imitates no form found in nature or formed by other hands, but it brings to mind nothing as much as hope arising out of darkness.

Netyarë and Curufinwë both want Tyelperinquar's coming-of-age celebration to be a good one, and both make efforts to do it so, planning, making arrangements and preparing gifts. They do not do the preparations together but in parallel; it is the way they live their lives now, close by but never touching.

They manage tolerably, Netyarë thinks, being glacially civil to each other and creating an otherwise warm atmosphere for Tyelpë's celebration. Yet her happiness and pride, at least, are ruined when over dinner Tyelpë notices her flinch when Curufinwë, sitting next to her for custom's sake, accidentally touches her hand when he reaches for something on the table. Curufinwë snatches his hand back as well.

Confronted with evidence of his parents' aversion to each other, the happy glow disappears from Tyelperinquar's face for a moment and is replaced by a scowling grief until he pulls himself together and assumes a smile again, bright and brittle.

 _My son is learning to wear masks too, then, even if he is not very good at it yet._ Netyarë might cry, or shout out in anger, if she were not in the middle of a feast. But she is, so she too summons a smile, and it is brighter than Laurelin's light is this far north, for she learned a long time ago how to cover whatever else she is feeling with a smile, and she has had plenty of opportunities to perfect the deception.

Fëanáro does not bother with masks and smiles, not among family whose absolutely loyalty he demands and in most cases has. He makes little secret of his lack of affection for Netyarë. He thinks that she does not support Curufinwë enough, even while he respects her for at least being in Formenos unlike Nerdanel; but because it is no more than he considers just and right, it wins her little regard.

Netyarë tries not to care about her father-in-law. And in spite of his intense gaze and forceful personality, Fëanáro's dislike of her is a tiny drop in the ocean of grief that fills her whenever she thinks of all the love that has been lost between her and her husband.

*

Then comes the day of darkness, arriving at the time of the harvest festival where Fëanáro set out alone, defiantly dressed in everyday clothes. When the light fades Maitimo has led his brothers out on a hunt, since they had been feeling restless, but Tyelperinquar has taken the opportunity to spend some time with his mother.

They try to have a festival of their own, in a fashion, those of them in Formenos who are not too irate or restless, but once again celebration is only a pale shadow of what it should be. The king is grim for Fëanáro's absence and, it seems, some foreboding that he will not share with anyone.

And when the darkness embodied comes to the fortress and demands his due, Finwë faces it alone when others flee. Tyelperinquar has bared his sword, ever-present on his belt, but at his grandfather's urging and his own overwhelming fear he too runs, hand in hand with Netyarë.

When the worst darkness passes from Formenos – the one that is not simply an absence of light but a presence of evil – the sons of Fëanáro returning find the king dead and all others in hiding. As reward for his valour, Finwë had only received a terrible death, his body broken and his face twisted into an image of pain.

When Curufinwë sees that Netyarë and Tyelperinquar are unharmed he doesn't say a word but pulls them into his arms. Both of them; Netyarë freezes, but as she feels Curufinwë's whole body shake she forces herself to relax and lays a hand on his back and after a moment begins to cautiously and very gently stroke his hair. Her other arm she winds around Tyelperinquar.

They remain there like that for a while, Netyarë within the arms of her strong men, comforting them both while the crush of darkness in her own heart is eased by the embrace.

Eventually Curufinwë pulls away, stands a little apart and says, in a steady voice that is clearly the result of a struggle, 'The king is dead, the Silmarils and other jewels gone; we must ride to Taniquetil to tell everyone.' He wipes away the traces of tears from his face with a leather glove, stands up ramrod straight and turns to go, expecting his wife and son to follow after him.

They do, and they stay together and close to him in the days that follow, though there are no more embraces, and as grief becomes slightly less fresh the memory of a moment's closeness fades as well.

*

When the sons of Fëanáro finally find their father, wandering half-crazed with grief, they bring him to Tirion to recover, caring little that his exile has not yet been lifted. The whole family gathers for a sombre dinner at Fëanáro and Nerdanel's old house that is musty with disuse and filled with darkness and memories.

Carnistir and Tuilindien and Macalaurë and Tinweriel will go to their own houses for the night, but Curufinwë wants to stay in the old family home with his father and unmarried brothers. So he, Netyarë and Tyelperinquar stay even though the house they used to live in is close by, along the same street, and even though Fëanáro will allow none to console him, not even Curufinwë. His desperate grief is turning into desperate anger, and he is starting to speak words of revenge and rebellion. Curufinwë appears relieved by this change; Netyarë is disturbed.

Having gone days without food, they now prepare and eat a grave dinner together, simple fare that none of them have an appetite for anyway, and speak little while they dine. Tyelperinquar seems restless during the meal and as soon as he has cleared his plate, he pushes his chair back, bows to his father and grandfather and says that he will go light fires in the bedchambers.

'Tyelpë, we will need –' begins Netyarë quietly.

'I know, mother.' There is a wealth of disappointment and hurt in her son's voice; he must be disappointed  that his parents haven't really managed to find a way back to each other in spite of the shared grief and fear at the overturning of their world. 'I know we will need three bedrooms between us, you and father and me.'

Both Curufinwë and Netyarë are profoundly grateful when none of the others present remark on this.

Soon they retire to their bedchambers for the night – although to call it night is purposeless, for the death of the Trees and the following ever-present darkness eradicated the distinction between night and day and made such words meaningless, but they are used nonetheless to keep some sense in the world. Curufinwë and Netyarë's fingers touch for a moment when he hands her a lampstone, and the touch brings them both a small measure of comfort that neither expected.

Netyarë is hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when there is a knock on her door.

Thinking that it is her son feeling restless or lonely, she quickly tiptoes to open the door and finds her husband at the threshold of her room for the first time in years. He is pale and instead of holding his usual proud stance, he looks like he might collapse at any moment.

'I cannot sleep', he says in a ragged voice. 'I keep seeing his burnt and ravaged... corpse.'

If he had come to her in anger she would have slammed the door in his face, but she cannot stop her heart aching for his grief. The last few days have been terrible for her, and they must have been far worse for him, who has been both grieving his grandfather and fearing for his father's sanity.

She opens the door wider and he steps in, and she lets him into her arms and her bed, and she might let him into her heart if he asked.

*

She wakes when he is pulling on his clothes from where they lie scattered on the floor. He is clearly trying to keep as quiet as possible, and she does too, letting him think that she is asleep, watching him from under her lashes. In the blue-white light of the lampstone they did not cover for the night, Netyarë can see that her husband is still pale, his jaw is drawn tight, and his movements are controlled and stiff.

Even when he glances at her before stepping out the door his eyes betray no emotion, no anger or grief or love, only a cold determination. He looks like a stranger to her, and he looks more like his father than he ever did before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably have noticed by now that Curufin (and also Netyarë to a lesser extent) has a tendency to use sex as a band-aid – a source of comfort and a substitute for other kinds of intimacy. It's not really helping.
> 
> If you have a little time I would really appreciate you leaving a comment! I've been sort of wondering if this story makes sense for anyone else besides me, so I'd love to hear your opinions.


	4. Dark ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among the darkness that has fallen in their land, Netyarë and Curufinwë are lost to each other and cannot find the way back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is again built closely around canon; HoME X and XII were important sources.
> 
> I'm using Curufinwion, 'son of Curufinwë', as Tyelperinquar's father-name – Fëanáro very pointedly calls him that sometimes to emphasise Tyelpë's connection and loyalty to his father's family.

When Netyarë next sees her husband, he is planning something with his father and his brothers, talking in low but impassioned voices at the large dining table. She makes breakfast for herself and Tyelperinquar, since the domestic servants are still at Formenos, and they eat in another room. She believes Fëanáro is continuing his talk of rebellion that he began before the others went to bed. He does not look like he rested at all; he looks like he spent the time whipping himself into ever greater fury.

Netyarë is afraid of the wild look in Fëanáro's eyes and resolves to keep Tyelperinquar away from him as long as she can. Curufinwë, however, seems relieved that Fëanáro is now planning action instead of simply floating in despair.

It is not very long before Curufinwë comes to find his family. Netyarë and Tyelperinquar are in the kitchen doing the dishes, and Curufinwë tells them to stop.  'My father is going to the great square to speak to the people.'

Curufinwë looks at Tyelperinquar expectantly; Tyelperinquar looks at Netyarë as if for permission, or acquiescence at least; Netyarë looks at both of them and says nothing. She lost the battle to keep Tyelperinquar with her years ago, before she even realised that it was a battle.

After a moment Curufinwë prompts her, 'Will you come, wife, and stand in silence next to me as you have done so many times, or will you stay and be silent here?'

He acts with her just as he has for the last few years, cold and mocking, as if the tender moments of passion that took place between the two of them just hours ago never happened. Netyarë closes her eyes and prays for strength. Why would she give him her loyalty when he does not even give her acknowledgement of her having comforted him in his hour of grief? They have clearly not returned to how things were before. It must be entirely too late for that, and she is a fool for having hoped for even a moment.

'I will stay', she says, and she does. She is left alone in the house but for a few strong men that Curufinwë leaves to guard her in case something dangerous materialises out of the darkness. It is his only show of caring before he goes by his father's side, their hands on the hilts of their swords, Tyelperinquar following close behind in like manner with his uncles.

While her men are gone Netyarë walks around the dark, empty house with one candle in hand, bringing memories into the light piece by little piece.

_Here in front of the hearth Huan tackled Tyelpë when he could barely walk and was about to burn himself on a hot poker; I painted this portrait of the seven brothers for a begetting day of Fëanáro's; Macalaurë composed a silly ode on this spot when he was unusually drunk; in this sitting room Curufinwë once told me he wanted to kiss me, and then that he wanted to marry me, and we stayed here alone for hours, lost in each other…_

It is self-indulgent and hardly helpful, she knows, but there is nothing else to do while she waits to hear what her father-in-law accomplishes in his mad grief. How she hates this inactivity and passivity… But she knows that had she gone with her husband and spoken against his father, she would have accomplished nothing. She has no power, no influence among their people, for she never sought any approval except for her art; all she can do is hope that Nolofinwë will prevail over Fëanáro's maddest ideas.

 _What a terribly disloyal thought,_ she thinks, a little disgusted with herself out of old habit, but then she remembers the mad fire running wild in Fëanáro's eyes. Nothing good could come of something like that.

*****

It takes long enough for the men to return that Netyarë tires of wandering the house and takes a seat in the front hall and waits, sitting still with her hands in her lap but restless in spirit, her guards a silent presence between her and the door.

As soon as the door opens she rises to her feet. Fëanáro returns with his sons though not all them, and while Tyelcormo is still in the doorway Fëanáro gives him a few words of instruction and he leaves again. Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar are there, though, and she goes to them.

Netyarë is not sure what to say. 'Curufinwë –', she begins, but he interrupts her at once.

'We need to talk.' He looks grim, yet like he is burning strongly with an inner fire, as does Fëanáro; she can practically see the flames lapping in his eyes.

'Yes, go speak with your wife', Netyarë's father-in-law says, in a voice that is a little cracked as if from shouting for a long time but no less powerful for it. 'Curufinwion, go after Tyelcormo and help him with his tasks.'

'Yes, grandfather', Tyelpë says at once and only then remembers to look at his mother for approval.

She supposes that he will be as safe with Tyelco as with anyone, so she nods, and allows Curufinwë to lead her away. He takes her to the sitting room at the back of the house where they first confessed their love for one another on a rainy morning that feels so long ago now.

 _He wants something of me_ , Netyarë thinks. _But does he really think that bringing me here will help his case? Surely he too must realise that we are past help._

Curufinwë gestures for her to take a seat but she remains standing. 'Just tell me', she says.

So he does. In words forged steel-hard and steel-sharp with hate and anger, his father's fell fury mirrored, he tells her that Fëanáro is leading their people to the lands across the sea in pursuit of revenge and restitution and freedom. He is following, of course, and Tyelperinquar has promised to follow, too.

 _So this is how it feels when one's heart breaks suddenly_ , Netyarë thinks, detached and distant from herself, from the room she is standing in and from her husband who is still spouting words of rebellion. From the pain spreading in her chest like a stain that takes over an entire surface until nothing is left of the original colour.

She lost Curufinwë slowly over several decades, and her heartbreak over him was gradual. But her son, her beloved only child that she gladly gave the best of her to make – hearing that he is leaving broke her heart in an instant, and she will have, what, a few weeks to say goodbye before he follows his father and his kin over the sea into unknown lands, unknown darkness?

She knows already, though Curufinwë has not asked her yet, that she will not go. Moving with him to Formenos for a predetermined, short period of exile was one thing; following him and his grief-crazed father into the unknown is another, especially since she never believed there to be anything greater to be found in those other lands. And the things between the two of them have changed much since they went to Formenos.

'Netyarë, are you even listening to me?'

'No', she answers honestly. 'Not since you said that Tyelpë is going with you.'

'And are you?' Finally standing still after pacing around impatiently, he watches her closely.

She cannot help but wonder aloud, 'Why do you even ask me to come? We have brought little joy to each other for many years.'

'A wife belongs by her husband's side.'

He has not always spoken so: once he would have said that a husband and wife belong by each other's side. Or so she thinks, at least, but she is no longer certain if she ever truly knew him.

In cool, clipped words, as if all passion has been burnt out of him suddenly, Curufinwë continues, 'You have been faithful to me, until now, despite everything, or not been unfaithful, at least.'

'I will always be faithful, Curufinwë, but I will not come with you.'

'Well.' His right hand moves to the hilt of his sword and Netyarë draws a sharp breath, but Curufinwë does not draw the weapon, merely grips it so tight that his knuckles turn white. 'You did always follow my mother's example.'

'She has taught me many things, that is true, but I make my own choices for my own reasons. I would have liked to be loyal to you, but to do that I would have had to give up being true to myself.'

He laughs at her now, a cruel sound without any joy. 'Do you really still believe that here is the best place for us? The Valar cannot keep us safe even in their own land, and they will not punish the one who took away the light we came here for and killed my grandfather the king. And still you would be their slave.'

'I have told you before: I don't feel like a slave here. And if I followed you and your father across the sea, I would be doing just that, _following,_ obeying.' Her voice is rising as she gets angry. 'But you see nothing wrong with that because you would follow him into a fire, wouldn't you? Into certain painful death, just because he tells you to. I cannot come watch it.'

Curufinwë says nothing, just watches her with narrowed eyes, his hand still on his sword. She rather suspects he is staying silent and still to keep himself from striking her for her words.

They come pouring out of her now, all the words she had hidden in icy silences. 'The less your father gives you the more you give him – it has been so ever since he created the Silmarils. When did you last finish a project of your own? It must be years! You are no more than a pair of skilled hands to work his designs and another brilliant mind to process his ideas –'

'Watch your tongue, wife.' A warning in a low voice.

'I tried to tell you, I think, but you never believed, that just because one gem shines brighter than all the others it does not mean that those others are worthless. You are more than your father's shadow.' Yet that is what he has chosen to become, and that is why she cannot be with him anymore.

'Sweet words won't keep me from going, or make me leave our son with you.'

'Yes. Tyelpë.' She buries her grief deep down, as she has watched her husband do for decades, so that she can be angry with him. 'When he was little you promised you would protect him from all harm, yet now you would take him to where the dark enemy has gone. You must remember the premonition I had at the hour of his birth, of his fate being tied to a great darkness. When I told you, you were as broken-hearted as I was!'

'If your premonition was true, darkness will find him wherever he is.'

'It is not some adventure you are going on, or just an exploration of new lands! You are going to fight the dark enemy, one of the great powers, who killed your grandfather in one blow and escaped all the rest of the Valar. What hope have you of defeating him?'

'Netyarë, entreating me with arguments or old promises will not change my mind. I have sworn an oath that could not be broken even if I wanted to break it, and I don't.'

This he has not spoken of before, or else she did not hear it in her agony of anticipating the separation from her son. 'I have never heard of such an oath.'

He tells her, sparing no detail and showing her no mercy, and she lets out a loud wordless sound of pain when she hears that he swore in the name of the One.

'Did Tyelpë swear too?' _Did you damn our son as you damned yourself?_ She wants to scream at him but all that comes out is a choked whisper.

'No, he did not swear. Only my father and my brothers and I.'

'Oh, thank the Valar.' She staggers back to sit down at last, relief releasing her tight-frozen body and sapping all strength from her limbs.

Curufinwë watches her, and when she lifts her gaze back to him, she can see that there is a measure of relief in his eyes, too. Few would be able to see it but she, who devoted decades to watching him and learning him after they were married, knows most of what he would hide.

_Perhaps he does know, somewhere deep inside, the wrongness of this oath. For he seems glad that our son is not bound by it._

That small hint of relief earns him some things. 'I will not cause a scandal by publicly renouncing you. I will live with you until you go. But I will not share a bed with you – we will sleep in separate rooms, as we have done – and you make your preparations and take your leave without my blessing.'

'I suppose I should be grateful for your small mercies', Curufinwë says in a tone that has frozen many brave men in place. 'Yet a wife forsaking her husband appears to be such a common occurrence in Tirion on this day, as unbelievable as it would have seemed yesterday, that your desertion of me would hardly be remarkable.'

There is a part of Netyarë that weeps, for he has never spoken to her in a tone quite that hateful before, but she too knows how to keep tears inside, and she too knows how to wound with words. 'You have your pride, Curufinwë, now more than ever, I believe. It would hurt you to be known as one whose wife despises him, so it is indeed a mercy that I will playact an absence of hostility until the end.'

'I don't want your pity.'

Even though they closed off their _fëar_ from one another several years ago, Netyarë can feel Curufinwë's emotions now. His control over himself has been constantly close to breaking ever since the Darkening, and at this moment, full of emotion even if he wants to pretend to feel nothing, he cannot keep himself from her. His fury, fear and grief are a wall of black smoke that rushes at her and threatens to suffocate her in despair.

With difficulty she shakes herself free of him and tells him, 'I do not do it out of pity, I do it for our son and for the love we once shared.'

She commits an act of cruelty now, opening herself up for a moment and sharing a memory of what it was like in the early days and years of love between them, letting him feel the need they had had to constantly touch each other, to share everything they could, to talk together of the future that then was a 'forever together' as he once called it. She sends into his mind all the love and affection and desire that she still remembers but has been wondering if he has forgotten.

 _The radiance of my smiles for you, the light in your eyes when you looked at me_ –

 _All those times I came apart under your touch and you called me beautiful_ –

_The evening after Tyelpë's naming when he and I slept and you watched over us so tenderly…_

Curufinwë closes his eyes as the memories hit him, and after a brief struggle manages to close himself off from her. 'That', he says, grinding his teeth, 'was not a mercy. It was as vicious as anything I have ever done.'

He walks away from her, goes to begin his preparations for the long journey, but turns back at the door to say, 'No matter how much you hate me and my decisions, you will never be free of me. We are bound to each other, and even if you will not be a true wife, you will always be mine.'

'I know', she says, twisting the golden ring on her finger. He carved words of promise inside the band before he gave it to her, words that are always against her skin. 'As you are mine, wherever you go. But it… it doesn't mean what it used to. I don't know what it means now.'

*

Until Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar leave, Netyarë and her husband once again co-exist in a cold silence that they only break when their son is present. Even then they speak only of things that sound like they matter, but do not really: packing, arrangements, other practicalities.

One night when their small family of three is gathered at dinner after not seeing each other all day, Tyelperinquar asks his mother, 'What will you do when we are gone?' He has been engaged in frantic preparations with his father and uncles all day, but now his demeanour is quiet as he pushes his food around his plate.

Netyarë has been thinking about her future, though it hurts. 'I think I might live with your grandmother Nerdanel, since Indis is going back to the Vanyar. And I expect I will keep painting.' She doesn't know how to do anything else.

'I hope you will', Tyelpë says and looks at her beseechingly. 'And I hope you will move in together with grandmother. I don't like the idea of either of you being alone.'

He seeks her out after dinner to speak with her in private, something which he has had little opportunity to do because his father has kept him very busy, and he has seemed to be feeling guilty for it. Somehow he is not angry with her staying; instead it looks like he feels guilty for leaving her.

He tells her in an anxious manner, 'I want you to know that I am not going because I want to leave you, mother, but in spite of it.'

'I know, and it is the same with me staying. I am sorry to have to say goodbye to you.' She puts her hand to his cheek. 'I do not fault your loyalty to your father and his family, though I am grieved to see you go and have made a different decision for myself. But remember, my dear, dear boy, my Tyelperinquar,' she holds his face between her palms and looks up into his eyes, 'that though you follow your father, you have your own spirit and your own heart too, and it is a good, strong, true heart. It will serve you well in dark times if you listen to it.'

'Perhaps you can come too when we have defeated the darkness. I know you don't want to live with father anymore', he bites his lip, 'but maybe you could live somewhere with me.'

 _You are so very young_ , Netyarë thinks. 'Perhaps, my darling. And now – do not worry for my sake. I will be well here.' It is the biggest lie she has ever told her son.

Yet the lie seems to work, for Tyelperinquar looks a little less despondent after it.

When she is alone again Netyarë perches on a windowsill, stares out into the darkness and thinks of families broken up. She knows that many have made promises of reunion to their families, of coming back for them once things are better. But they cannot know if they will be able to keep that promise, just like her Tyelpë cannot. (Curufinwë has made her no promises of course, just to his father.)

She has never told Tyelperinquar of the premonition she had about his future, and decides that she will not tell him before he goes. As Curufinwë said, if it was a true prophecy, there is nothing that can be done to change Tyelpë's destiny. And she never saw his final fate, only that the works of his hands would lead him into darkness. Perhaps there is hope at the end, though it is difficult to believe at this moment.

*

On the day the hosts of the Noldor leave Tirion, Netyarë speaks goodbyes to her son but to her husband she gives only a cool nod of acknowledgement, and he returns it and then turns away from her to tighten his horse's girth. The charade is over; let others think what they will.

(A part of her does want to go to Curufinwë and hold him tight to her and tell him to be safe. But that is the weak part of her, the part she cannot allow to control her today; she will give free rein to her anger and pride to keep her sorrow from consuming her.)

Tyelperinquar, though, deserves gentleness, as ever, and a fond goodbye.

They are surrounded in every direction by the eight-pointed star Netyarë has come to hate; it is emblazoned on shields and tabards and barding. She ignores it on Tyelpë's chest and takes her son's hands in her own and tells him again that although they have decided to take different paths, he goes with her blessing. 'Do what you must where you go, but swear no oaths', she asks of him quietly.

'Mother, I –', Tyelpë glances uncomfortably at the direction of his father and grandfather.

'This is all I ask of you.' She looks at him steadily, not afraid to force her will on his to keep him safe.

'I will swear no oaths', he says after a moment.

Netyarë manages to smile, and he gives her a pale smile as well. She puts a hand on his heart, covering most of the star. 'Remember what I told you, and may you find light wherever you go, my beloved son.'

'You as well, mother.' He embraces her suddenly, burying his face in her shoulder as he did when he was a little boy and she held him in his arms. Now he is tall and strong and has to bend down to hold his mother, yet the embrace feels the same. Netyarë strokes his back comfortingly for a short moment, then returns her arms to her sides so he can let go of her when he is ready to.

His eyes are very bright, close to tears, when he straightens up, but he tries to smile again. 'Farewell, mother.'

'Farewell, Tyelpë.' She steps back from him to let him go, and she walks to where one of her sisters-in-law stands, having each already said her goodbyes. Each step away from Tyelperinquar is harder and hurts more.

Before Curufinwë leaves, their gazes meet only once more, and she can see nothing but ashes of what they once shared in his eyes that are cold and hard, steel-grey even in the torchlight, showing nothing of the blue she used to love. And after he gets on his horse he never looks back.

Tyelperinquar glances back at his mother several times as he rides away by his father's side, and each time Netyarë waves and tries to smile. She stands beside her sister-in-law, the two of them lending each other strength that neither of them really has, and she manages not to cry until she thinks her son is too far too see it.

*

Five hundred and six years after the new sun rose in the sky Netyarë wakes suddenly at the middle of the night and sits up at once, her hands going to her chest, her shoulder, her stomach – there is a piercing pain in each and as she lifts a hand from her hurting heart she expects to see it covered in blood. But there is nothing to see in the pale moonlight streaming into her bedroom; her hands are dry and her skin is whole, unpierced, and she sobs with the pain for only a few moments longer, and then it fades. Something within her snaps, and her world shifts.

She sits awake for a long time and wonders if Námo will ever let her husband come back, if his doom will ever be lifted. Even if it is, she thinks it will be a very long time until he walks in Valinor again. And if he is released – will he come back to _her_ or not?

Tears flow and then dry on her face as she wonders which alternative she is more scared of, and she wonders if their son was with Curufinwë when he died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a) terrible for doing this to these characters, b) happy because I got to indulge in angst for 15k words, and c) curious about whether Tolkien ever felt sad when he wrote about his characters establishing great kingdoms or having families and then destroyed those kingdoms in spectacular manner and killed off almost everyone.
> 
> At some point I will probably write a fluffy and/or smutty one-shot about the happy time in Netyarë and Curufinwë's marriage as a palate cleanser of sorts.
> 
> Thank you for taking this misery trip with me! Do let me know what you thought :) You can also come say hello on [Tumblr](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/).


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